


Songs to Dance

by sneetchstar



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 14:07:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9610784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: 11 mini-fics, having nothing at all to do with singing or dancing.





	1. This is a face

**Author's Note:**

> This is a face.  
> This is a place.  
> This is a door.  
> This is a floor.  
> This is a room.  
> This is a poem.

“Have I told you how beautiful you are?” Arthur’s voice, low and soft, in Guinevere’s ear. She can feel his warm breath on her neck, her ear, and she almost drops the basket of laundry she is holding. She can sense his body close behind her.

“Arthur!” A whispered gasp. Her eyes close when his hands drift to her waist, the heat from his palms burning through the layers of her dress. “Someone might see,” she cautions, her reserve faltering.

“I keep telling you I don’t care,” he says, recklessly kissing her neck, knowing she can’t push him away because her hands are full.

“But your father…” she tries.

“My father doesn’t know if it is day or night, most of the time,” he says with a sigh, dropping his forehead to her shoulder.

Footsteps.

He pulls her through a nearby door, into a vacant guest room, closing the door quietly. He takes the basket from her hands and drops it unceremoniously to the floor.

“Guinevere,” he says simply. Her pulse quickens at the sound of her name on his lips.

“You are becoming careless, my lord,” Gwen says, dropping her eyes to the floor. _If I look at him I will surely die of my need for him._

The room is dark; the drapes are drawn. A solitary sunbeam shines in through the divide in the drapes at one window, splitting the room. Dust motes swirl in the air that has been disturbed by the unexpected visitors. They dance in the sunbeam.

“What I am becoming is surer of myself, Guinevere, more certain of what I want. What I know I need.” He pulls her unresisting into his arms, splaying his broad fingers across her narrow back.

“Oh,” she dumbly says, her brain clearly somewhere in the laundry basket at her feet. Her fingers absently curl into the fabric of his shirt as he bends his head to kiss her, once, softly.

“I know I need you, Guinevere. I am only half the man I could be without you by my side,” he whispers, his face hovering close to hers, eyes only half open as he brushes his lips against hers, nuzzling her nose with his.

Gwen is trembling in his arms, not with fear of discovery but with untapped desire. _If he wanted me in this moment, I would willingly give myself to him, consequences be damned._

“I lo—”

She cuts off his words with her lips, words she is too afraid to hear him speak yet she knows them to be true with every fiber of her being, down to her very core. She lifts on tiptoe, pressing against him, _showing_ him rather than telling him, too afraid to speak the words herself.

Arthur is lost, adrift in a sea made of Guinevere as he feels her small hands bunching his shirt in her fists, straining her body upwards to reach him, clinging to him yet holding him upright.

_She loves me._


	2. Since I have

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I have met you once,  
> I will meet you twice.  
> If we had lived forever,  
> We would have met before  
> And said goodbye, hello,  
> Goodbye, hello, goodbye,  
> Until the clocks break down.  
> When anything is possible,  
> Very little will do nicely.  
> These tables are my friends.  
> There are others,  
> But these are my friends.

_Surely there are more mushrooms in that thicket,_ Guinevere thinks, ducking under the low-hanging branches of an immense willow tree surrounded by thick undergrowth. She creeps along, her young limbs carrying her easily, her young eyes trained on the forest floor.

She shifts the basket in her hands, hitching the handle up onto her forearm, and stoops, finding her prize under some large leaves.

She peers at them carefully. _Yes, these are edible._ Plucking the fat mushrooms from the loamy ground, she creeps along, following them, picking the large ones, leaving the smaller ones to grow for another harvest.

“Oh!” she exclaims. There’s a boot in front of her. She lifts her eyes, following it along, and sees that the boot is attached to a boy, leaning against the willow. He appears to be about her age, perhaps a year older. Skinny, hair so blonde it is almost white, he sits, one leg outstretched, the other bent, his arm draped across his bony knee.

He laughs at her surprise, and she scowls.

“Hello,” he says simply.

“Hello. What are you doing here?” she asks with the simple straightforwardness of a child.

“Hiding. What are _you_ doing?” he looks at her, in her simple dress, basket looped over her arm, hair in two plaits hanging at her shoulders.

“Picking mushrooms.” She holds one aloft before dropping it in her basket. “Why are you hiding?”

“Because I got in trouble.”

“So?”

“I got yelled at.”

She walks over and plops down beside him, setting her basket on the other side. “You ran and hid because you got yelled at? Are you a coward?”

“I am _not_ a coward!” he yells. “I’m teaching them a lesson,” he pouts.

“What lesson is that? That you go away if someone yells at you?”

 _This girl is annoying._ “No. They’ll be scared when they can’t find me.”

 _That’s really stupid,_ she thinks, but chooses not to say it. “What did you do?”

“I put a frog in my nursemaid’s water goblet.”

She laughs at this, surprising him. “You have a nursemaid?” she asks, once she’s done laughing.

“Of course I do. Don’t you?”

“No.” _He must be a noble._  
“Who takes care of you, then?”

She looks at him, incredulous. “My father.”

“What about your mother?”

“I don’t have a mother anymore,” she says quietly.

“Oh,” he answers, just as quietly. “I don’t either.”  
“Oh.”

“What’s in your basket?”

She picks it up and puts it in her lap. “Mint,” she pulls a bunch of leaves, bright green, oval, and wrinkled. She holds it to his nose and rubs a leaf between her thumb and forefinger. “Smell,” she instructs.

He does, and the familiar cool scent reaches his nostrils.

“Lavender,” she produces a bunch of silvery-green branches, their leaves long and thin, with small purple flowers.

“I can smell that from there,” he comments, as she holds it to her face, smiling as she inhales the scent.

“A few wild onions,” she holds them up.

“I don’t want to smell those.”

She laughs again. “Chives,” she holds up a bunch, long green strands like thick grass, a few purple flower heads dangling.

“Raspberries,” she pulls two out and hands him one. They both eat.

“Good,” he assesses.

“And of course, the mushrooms.”

“Aren’t they poison?” he asks.

“Some will kill you. Some will make you ill. Others will make you see strange things and behave foolishly. Others are perfectly harmless and yummy. Like these. The trick is knowing which are which.”

He looks at her. “You’re kind of smart. For a girl.”

“What do you mean, ‘for a girl?’”

“Everyone knows that boys are smarter than girls.”

“The only people that think that are boys,” she says staring him down.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, and it’s usually because they’ve met a girl that is smarter than they are.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s not mature enough to admit that she’s probably right, though somewhere deep down, he probably suspects that she is.

They sit silently for several minutes. A standoff. Gwen puts her basket back on the ground beside her with a sigh and smoothes her skirt over her brown knees.

He looks at her. If he had more experienced eyes, he could see the beginnings of beauty forming there, unconventional, true beauty. Her smooth skin, soft almond eyes, full lips, and long neck all pointing to a future woman who will indeed have many admirers.

The only thing he can think is, _Her lips are kind of big. I wonder what they feel like?_

He leans over and plants a kiss on her lips, quick and surprising, causing her to jump slightly. Before she can properly react, he is gone, scampering away on skinny legs, toward Camelot.

 

xXx

 

“Morgana, this is your new maidservant,” Uther introduces the two young ladies.

“My lady,” Gwen curtseys, keeping her eyes respectfully downcast.

“What’s your name?” Morgana asks.

“Guinevere, my lady.”

“Guinevere, please look up,” Morgana says kindly. “How old are you?”

“Thirteen, I think,” she says.

Morgana nods. “I’m fifteen. The prince is fourteen, and he is a pain.”

“Morgana,” Uther says, trying to chastise her, but not really putting any effort into it.

“I’m just warning her,” she protests. “Come on, I’ll show you where my room is.”

“Yes, my lady,” she follows her new mistress out of the great hall and through the corridors of the palace, wondering if she’ll ever learn her way around this massive place.

“Morgana!” a voice calls. Morgana sighs and stops. “That’s the prince,” she says quietly to Gwen before turning around. “What do you want, Arthur?”

“I want to know what you did to my sword!” he comes storming up to them.

Gwen recognizes him immediately. _It’s that boy. The frog boy. From the willow tree three years ago. He’s taller, not as skinny, but it’s definitely him._ She hides behind Morgana, just a little, remembering that fleeting kiss.

“I did nothing to your sword, Arthur,” she puts her hands on her hips, where they are just beginning to take on a womanly shape.

“Well then how is it you beat me this morning? You had to have tampered with it in some way, because it’s not possible that you won because—”

“Because I’m better than you? Oh, certainly not, it’s inconceivable that I might be better with a sword than the mighty Prince Arthur,” she says theatrically, waving her arms about.

He glowers at her. “Tomorrow. I will best you at tomorrow’s training.” He finally notices Guinevere standing there. “Who’s this?” he points.

“ _I_ have my own personal maidservant now,” she gloats, knowing that Arthur does not yet have a servant. “This is Guinevere. We were just going to my room so I could show her where everything is.”

“Yes, so important to know where you keep your frocks and your hair combs,” he rolls his eyes, clearly not interested.

 _He doesn’t recognize me._ She doesn’t know whether to be hurt or relieved.

“Are you done?” Morgana asks impatiently, putting her hands on her hips.

He pauses, pursing his lips together. “Yes, I think so.”

“Good,” Morgana says, turning away from him. “You’d better get back out there and practice some more, Arthur, if you think you’re going to beat me tomorrow,” she calls over her shoulder.

Gwen stifles a giggle.

 

xXx

 

Guinevere hurries down a flight of stairs, racing to the laundry for Morgana’s gown. In her haste, she neglects gathering her skirts as she descends.

Four steps from the bottom, her foot catches in her skirt and she tumbles forward, arms flying, heading straight for the stones.

She falls headlong into Prince Arthur, who has just rounded the corner to ascend the stairs.

He catches her easily, his battle-ready reflexes stopping her fall, but her momentum staggers him backwards a step as her body collides with his, her hands clutching his vest as his hands automatically circle her waist.

“Oh! Forgive me, my lord!” she exclaims, shaken and breathless.

“Quite all right,” he says, still holding her. _Why am I not letting go?_ “I am a knight and a prince; it is my duty to rescue plummeting damsels,” he says with a small smile.

She stares at him, at the light in his eyes. _Is he joking with me? I’ve never seen this side of the prince._ Confused, she says, “Thank you, Sire,” and pushes back against his chest. _His warm, broad, rock-hard chest. The chest of a man._

He eases his grip on her, hands sliding on her waist for just a moment before dropping to his sides. “It’s Guinevere, isn’t it?” he asks, angling his head.

“Yes, Sire, but most people call me Gwen, if you please.”

“Well, Guinevere,” he says, his eyes twinkling again, “where were you off to in such a rush?”

“Oh!” she exclaims again, remembering her task. “I was headed to the laundry, to fetch my lady’s gown for tonight’s feast. Your… your birthday feast, if I’m not mistaken, my lord.” She smiles a small smile and looks down at her feet.

 _When did Morgana’s skinny little maid turn into a woman, petite but delicious?_ Arthur’s hands twitch at his sides, remembering the curve of her hips against them. His chest feels tight as it recalls the softness of her breasts pressed against it, if only momentarily.

“My lord?”

“Oh, yes, quite so. Birthday feast, yes. Eighteen today.”

“Um… if you’ll excuse me, Lady Morgana is waiting,” she says awkwardly, suddenly feeling warm all over under his scrutiny.

“Of course. Do not let me keep you.”

“Thank you again for catching me, Sire.” She steps forward, bites her lip, then quickly leans up and kisses his cheek, the tiniest peck. “Happy birthday,” she says softly, and scurries quickly away, head bent.

 

xXx

 

“Guinevere?” Arthur’s voice comes through the door of her tiny house. He had knocked but received no answer. _I know she’s home._

He knocks again, and waits. _I’m going to open the door any minute now,_ he thinks, just as it is opened.

“My lord?” she asks, her brows furrowed.

 _She looks fine. What took her so long to answer? It’s not like this place is big,_ he wonders.

“I’m, um…”

“Please, come in, Sire,” she says, stepping back to let him in. “I hope you weren’t waiting. I was in the back, gathering some herbs.”

His eyes sweep across the one room of the house, noting the one long table in the middle, a narrow bed shoved to one side, a worktable and basin, and a wardrobe. There are bunches of herbs and flowers hanging on the walls, upside-down, drying. On the table he sees more herbs, fresh, and some produce. Some apples, a bowl of raspberries, a pile of mushrooms, an onion.

“To what do I owe this unexpected surprise?” she asks.

“I’m actually looking for Merlin. Gaius doesn’t know where he is, and I know you are friendly with him,” he pauses, wondering exactly _how_ friendly, “so I thought perhaps you might know where he’s gotten himself off to.”

She picks up a bunch of bright green oval leaves, slightly wrinkled, and sets them on the higher worktable behind her. “I’m afraid I don’t know where he is, my lord. He did say something about the marketplace, but beyond that, I cannot say.”

He sits on a bench at her table, looking very large inside the small room. His eyes pass over the apples. They pause at the mushrooms before moving to the raspberries, where they stop.

_Something is familiar._

“May I ask why you are looking for him?” she asks, reaching to pick up the onion, placing it in a basket with some others. She sees him looking at the raspberries. “Would you like some berries, Sire?”

“Perhaps one,” he says, looking up at her. She puzzles back at him, reaching into the bowl and extracting two berries, handing him one. They both eat.

“So tell me, Guinevere, are these mushrooms the kind that will kill you, the kind that will make you ill, or the kind that will…” he scrunches up his face, trying to remember, “the kind that will make you see strange things and behave foolishly?”

She gasps. _He remembered. It took him ten years, but he finally remembered._ “No, my lord, these are perfectly harmless.”

“Don’t forget yummy,” he says, a half smile playing at his lips.

 _I’ve never noticed the fullness of his lips before just now,_ she thinks. _I really shouldn’t be thinking about the fullness of the prince’s lips._

“I didn’t remember that day until just now,” Arthur admits. “That was you that day, under the tree.”

She nods. “You put a frog in your nursemaid’s water goblet.”

He laughs, and suddenly the details of that day flood back to him. His eyes open wide as he remembers kissing her and running away.

She sees this, and turns away from him so that he cannot see her laughing at him. “You were insisting that boys are smarter than girls,” she says over her shoulder.

“Yes, that does sound like me, doesn’t it?” he chuckles, quietly standing. “And you argued that they aren’t.”

Gwen turns around to find him standing very close. Too close.

“Sire…” she starts.

“I remember I kissed you,” he says simply.

She nods, looking up at him, her traitorous heart thumping against her ribcage. “Why did you do that?” she whispers.

“I was eleven,” he shrugs. His voice drops to a low rumble, soft. “I was curious. I wanted to know what your lips felt like.”

“Oh.”

He reaches up and strokes her lower lip with his thumb, caressing it gently, his fingers curling under her chin.

Her eyes close. _What did they feel like, Arthur? Do you remember? Would you like me to remind you?_

She feels his hand leave her face, and when she opens her eyes, she only sees the swish of his cape as he exits her house.

Trembling, she sinks down onto the bench, laying her hot forehead against the coolness of the wooden table.


	3. The rabbit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rabbit, soft and warm,  
> But afraid in the snow,  
> With no bush to hide in,  
> Feels driven into the clear,  
> But unlucky water,  
> And dies, sharp as ice,  
> One foot stretched forward,  
> With nails and fur on it.

The chill winter air pierces Guinevere’s lungs and stings her face as she runs, the wind unforgiving and cruel. She turns her head, looking behind her, eyes quickly searching for her pursuer.

_I don’t see her, but I hear her footsteps, her angry yells, the zinging sounds as she casts spells, trying to reach me._

_Keep running._

A low-hanging branch, heavy with encrusted ice, whips her face as she pushes through the undergrowth, but her face is already so cold that she does not feel the slap of the branch or the cut that is opened on her cheek.

Suddenly she finds herself in a small clearing, dipping into a shallow valley. She pauses, panting.

_No cover. Keep running._

Her aching lungs and frozen feet protest as she lights out again, down the slope.

Gwen’s foot crashes down into the snow at the bottom of the hill and into the hidden river below, the splintering crack of ice is the only sound she hears before her body is engulfed by the freezing, wet coldness, clear and heartless.

 

xXx

 

“ _Scyfe!_ ” Merlin hisses, thrusting his hand towards Morgana. _Push._ She flies through the air, her back connecting with a tree before she tumbles in a heap into the snow. Chunks of snow fall from the branches over her prone form, dotting her black gown with white blobs.

“Merlin! _Merlin!_ ” Arthur’s anxious voice shouts, frantic.

Merlin sprints toward his king to find him standing in the snow clutching Gwen’s rabbit fur wrap. The fur is frozen, the strands sticking up in clumps.

Arthur’s face is ashen, his expression helpless and desperate as he stares at it, then up at Merlin. He turns his face to where her tracks ended abruptly, a messy hole in the snow.

Merlin rushes down, past Arthur just slightly. “Stop! If the ice broke under her feet, you’ll surely go under as well,” Arthur says, his voice weak and shaking.

“I see her boot,” Merlin says quietly. He takes another step forward, holding his hand out in front of him. “ _Eorðe,_ ” he hisses, and he walks calmly to the hole. _Solid._  
Arthur scurries down after him, trusting his friend’s magic to hold them both. _But is he strong enough to save her?_

They reach the edge of the hole and crouch down, their own discomfort from the biting cold completely forgotten as they reach into the frigid water and pull the queen’s limp form from the river.

Arthur spreads his cape out and they place her in it, wrapping her in the thick red material.

“We need to get her warm,” Arthur says quietly.

“We need to get her _breathing,_ ” Merlin corrects, bending down, motioning that Arthur should do so also. “Lift her up, so she is sitting.”

Arthur takes her gently by her shoulders. _She’s so cold, so limp. The beautiful brown of her skin is slightly grey._ He sits behind her, supporting her.

Merlin places his hand on her chest, closes his eyes and whispers, “ _Áscéadan._ ” _Clear._

A moment later, Guinevere heaves, coughing, water spilling from her mouth, out of her lungs in great gushes. Arthur clutches her, holding her supportively, willing any remaining warmth from his body into hers.

“ _Now_ we get her warm,” Merlin says, standing.

 

xXx

 

“Any sign of her?” Arthur asks, pacing the room, waiting for Guinevere to wake up. They got her body warmed in time, huddling her in front of the fire in a pile of skins, Arthur wrapped around her as well, staying with her until she opened her eyes for a few minutes, wanting the chamber pot and then the bed.

“No, Arthur. The knights found the spot where I felled her, but she was gone. No tracks,” Merlin frowns.

“Of course not.” Arthur kicks the table, and it scuffs across the floor a few inches with an angry squeak.

“Don’t kick the furniture, Love,” Gwen’s voice, sleepy and slightly muffled, drifts to them from the bed. Arthur runs to her, sitting down beside her, placing his hand on her forehead, her cheek.

“How are you feeling?” Arthur asks quietly as Merlin joins them.

“Oh, like I was dead for a little bit today. You?” She smiles weakly at them.

Merlin chuckles, but Arthur can’t yet bring himself to laugh. “You should eat something, Love.”

“Have _you_ eaten anything?” she asks.

“No,” Merlin answers for him, earning him a dirty look. “I’ll have some soup brought for you both,” he says, turning.

“And—” Arthur starts.

“Yes, I’ll send Gaius up, too,” Merlin says, waving his hand dismissively at Arthur, not turning around.

“Arthur?” Gwen asks.

“Yes, my sweet?”

“Will you just lay with me and hold me for a little while?”

He immediately shucks his boots off and scoots under the covers beside her, fully clothed, gathering her to him.

She tucks her head into his shoulder and snuggles in, closing her eyes again.

“I thought I’d lost you. Again.”


	4. I am not free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not free, you see,  
> I rearrange the furniture.  
> It is a play, with images and walls,  
> In which I rearrange the furniture.  
> And when the room is mine,  
> The chairs are real,  
> I rearrange the furniture.

“Gwen, can you help me a moment, please?” Merlin sticks his head out of the doors leading to Arthur’s chambers, and, having spotted her passing, calls.

“Of course, Merlin, what do you need?” Gwen asks, turning towards the doors.

“Arthur wanted me to change his drapes,” he sighs, walking ahead of her.

“You need my help changing drapes?” she asks skeptically.

“No. I need your help picking out the fabric.”

“Why me?” she asks, hands on her hips.

“Because you know what Arthur likes, Gwen,” he says, blushing slightly, a little uncomfortable having to address their unspoken attraction.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, not very convincingly. She looks away and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Gwen, it’s all right,” Merlin says, crossing to her, putting his hands on her shoulders. “You don’t need to hide your feelings from me.”

“Yes, I do, Merlin!” she says, her voice suddenly harsh as she fights to keep her emotions in check. “If I can hide them from you, maybe, _maybe_ I can convince myself that I don’t feel them!”

“Why would you want to do that?” Merlin asks softly.

“Because nothing can come of it. He can’t marry me, he can’t even _court_ me. He probably shouldn’t even talk to me as much as he does.”

Merlin brushes away an errant tear with his thumb.

“It’s just a silly crush,” she lies. “He probably doesn’t even feel the same way.”

“Gwen, you know that isn’t true.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, you do. You may not see it, but I do. I see the way he always looks for you in a crowded room, the way his eyes track your movements as soon as he catches sight of you.”

She bites her lip and picks at her fingernails.

“Oh – and that one day, you dropped that bowl of fruit when that page almost ran you over? You bent over to pick it up, and I thought Arthur was going to pass out!” he laughs.

“What?” she asks, shocked and a little embarrassed.

“He, um, got a nice view of your…” he waves his hand vaguely in the area of her bosom, “…assets.”

“Oh!” she exclaims, slapping her hands over her breasts. _Stupid, it’s too late for that, it happened last week._ She drops her hands.

“He says your name in his sleep,” Merlin adds quietly.

Gwen gasps. “He… he does?”

“Frequently,” Merlin nods. “Seriously, Gwen, he thinks the world of you. As a _person,_ I mean. Your beauty is just a… a bonus.” He smiles at her.

She smiles back, but the smile quickly fades. “It doesn’t change the facts, Merlin.”

“What facts would these be?” he challenges.

“Whatever Arthur and I feel for each other, Uther will never allow us to even see if it can go anywhere.”

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to wait until Arthur is king, then,” Merlin shrugs.

She shakes her head. “Uther will have him married off to some princess before that time comes.”

“Gwen. Have faith. I do.”

“I’ll try.” She sighs heavily.

“Better than nothing,” Merlin says decisively. “Now. The red or the gold?” He holds up two choices.

She looks. “The red is awfully similar to what he already has.”

“He likes red.”

“He _likes_ blue,” she corrects. “Red is just the Pendragon color, so everyone automatically assumes that it is his favorite.”

“See? That’s why I need your help,” he grins triumphantly. She scowls at him.

“Gold,” she decides. “It will brighten the room.”

“Gold it is, then.” Merlin sets the red ones aside.

 

xXx

 

“You know what else I’d do?” Gwen asks.

“What’s that?”

“I’d take that _stupid_ antlered skull off the wall,” she answers, pointing back to the adjoining room where the trophy is hanging.

Merlin laughs. “Arthur killed that stag himself,” Merlin says. “At least that’s what he told me.”

“Oh? I suppose it was the first one he’d ever gotten? Surely shot when he was, oh, six years old?”

Merlin and Gwen laugh together, enjoying the rare opportunity to joke and daydream.

In the corridor, Arthur’s brow furrows as he hears laughter drifting from his chambers. _That’s a woman’s laugh. No. That’s_ Guinevere’s _laugh._ He hurries to the door, and strides into his room, looking for the swish of her skirts, the sweep of her dark curls.

He looks around, and sees what are unmistakably Merlin’s boots on his bed, beside a lavender skirt and small brown shoes.

“Flowers? Are you serious? He’d…”

“What the hell is going on here?” Arthur strides into his sleeping quarters to see something he’d never thought he’d see if he lived a thousand lives: Guinevere on his bed. With Merlin. _Okay, they are fully clothed, above the blankets, and not even touching. Still._

Gwen sits up and leaps off the bed, smoothing her skirts and fretting at her sleeves in her embarrassment. Merlin raises his arms, lacing his fingers behind his head.

“Do you like the drapes?” he asks casually.

“D-drapes?” Arthur sputters. “What were you doing on my bed? And why are you _still_ on my bed? Get off!”

“All right, all right, you don’t need to yell,” Merlin answers, slowly rising from the bed and then making a great show of straightening the coverlet and pillows.

“So?”

“We were mentally re-decorating your room, if you must know,” Merlin explains.

“Wh—”

“I’m sorry, my lord, we shouldn’t have been neglecting our duties. Or lying on your bed,” Gwen says softly.

He turns his eyes on her. _There is no possible way I can be mad at her._ “That’s all right, Guinevere, you’re allowed a break once in a while,” he says gently, smiling a little as he watches her. _You are welcome on – or in – my bed any time at all,_ he thinks, but it is a sad thought, a hopeful thought that he knows is probably hopeless.

She blushes again and looks down. “Thank you, Sire.”

“Arthur,” he corrects her for what feels like the hundredth time.

“Arthur,” she repeats, looking up at him through her lashes.

Merlin watches the pair of them, torn between quietly leaving and locking the door behind him and clearing his throat to remind them he is still there.

Decorum wins out and he clears his throat. The spell is broken. “The drapes? Yes or no.”

Arthur looks at them, scowling, studying them, saying nothing.

“Gwen chose them,” Merlin adds.

“They’re perfect,” Arthur says immediately, turning to look at her again.

“Thank you, my l— Arthur.”

“So, you were planning to redecorate my room, then?” he asks, taking a step closer to her.

“Just silly daydreaming,” she says dismissively, lightly.

He reaches forward and touches her cheek softly. “One day.”


	5. For me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For me, there is no song  
> Unless I sing it,  
> And yet I love you,  
> And make music  
> Which I cannot hear.

I slept on the table again. There is a crick in my neck, threatening to become permanent from my head being bent over the table each night rather than on my pillow.

But I cannot sleep in that bed. Not knowing that she is supposed to be there with me. In my arms. My body warming hers. Loving hers. Worshipping hers.

I miss her so much.

The sting of her betrayal is nothing compared to the burning gash that is her absence.

I’ve endured all manner of pain and hurt in my life. No cut from a sword, no blow received from a fist or a club, no bite from an enchanted beast, _nothing_ hurts as much as this pain.

She haunts my dreams. Dreams that turn into nightmares just because she is in them and I know that when I wake she will be gone.

I try not to sleep. I sit at this table; at my desk, attempting (pretending) to read, write, clean my fingernails, _anything_ to keep me from drifting off to sleep where her beautiful face and lavender smell will taunt me, making my loins and my heart ache.

Yet invariably I pass out, at this table; at my desk, my face in a book or pressed against the cold, hard wood.

Pressed against the cold, hard wood instead of into her soft, warm hair.

I cannot bear this pain.

Everywhere I go I am reminded of her. Even the stones in the floor echo her delicate footsteps.

The smell of lavender is like a dagger in my heart, twisting. I avoid the gardens.

My door opens, and Merlin enters my room. I can see his shoulders droop when he sees I’m not in my bed. Again.

His stalwart presence is comforting, but his sympathy irks me. I do not need his pity. I do not want his pity.

“Arthur?” he says quietly, his hand gentle, cautious on my shoulder as I sit and stare into the empty space that is my room. My room that should be our room.

“I’ll tend to my own needs this morning, Merlin,” I say testily, shrugging him away.

“Sire,” he starts, with that damnable patience of his, stepping back in again.

“That will be all, Merlin,” I snap, standing.

He sighs, which just irritates me more. “Breakfast, my lord?” he asks, persistent.

“Get out!” I yell, shoving him now and turning towards the window.

I hear a loud noise behind me and turn back, surprised. He’s slammed the sword and sword belt he was holding on the table, and there is fire behind his eyes.

“Damn it, stop taking your anguish out on me!” he says crossly, standing firm. “I’m only trying to help you, you know.”

Whoa.

“Merlin, I…”  
“Do you think you’re the only one hurting? That you’re the only one who misses her? Do you?” he rails at me, waving his arms, the pain finally showing on his face.

“I…”

“Apart from Gaius, she was the first person in Camelot to show me any friendship, any true kindness.” He pauses and continues, no longer shouting. “She and I have been through a lot together, and I love her like a sister, Arthur. So if you think that you’re alone in your pain, you’re not. You’re really not.” His voice is low, breaking on his last sentence, breathing hard. I can see the tears pricking at his eyes just before he turns away from me to stomp out of the room.

Honestly, I’ve been wondering when I’d push him too far. Wondering what it would take.

“Merlin.”

He stops, but does not turn.

“I’m sorry. You’re right.”

“Being king doesn’t mean that you do not need someone to lean on,” he says to the door. “Everyone needs friends, Arthur, regardless of their standing.”

We are both silent.

“I cannot abide her absence, Merlin.”

“I know.” He is still at the door, facing away. If we face each other and see the tears in our eyes, our mirrored expressions, it will be too embarrassing for us both.

“She…”

“I know, Arthur.” He finally turns around.

“Do you think I acted rashly?” I blurt out the question that has been plaguing me since the day she left. I was having second thoughts by that same afternoon.

“I think you acted mercifully, compared to what you could have done.”

“But?” I can hear the un-finished thought in the air and call it out.

“But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think she deserved another chance.”

I turn away now, looking back out the window. Unconsciously my eyes search for her on the cobbles of the courtyard. I drop my head and squeeze my eyes shut, remembering that I won’t see her.

“There is no joy left in my heart. She’s taken it with her. All that’s left is pain.”

“She is a part of you, Arthur.” Merlin’s voice, coming closer. “She is in your blood, in your bones as much as you are in hers.”

“Which is why I feel so empty, so incomplete without her,” I conclude.

“Do you want her back?” A simple question, but somehow it is the hardest question I have even been asked.

“Yes. No. Yes. What… what can I do, Merlin? I can’t live without her, but I don’t know if I can bear seeing her again.”

“You can. If you want to find her, we will find her.”

I sigh, troubled. Conflicted. My pain from her actions at war with my pain from her absence.

“Surely there must be an explanation for what happened,” he says, cautiously, treading what he knows is very dangerous ground.

“I asked her for an explanation! I even suggested some to her! She had none!” I’m yelling again, but it is not at Merlin. It is at the situation, the world, the gods.

“Perhaps…” he looks uncomfortable now, afraid. He knows I am not yelling out of anger at him, but he is troubled nevertheless.

“Yes?” I ask, as calmly as I can manage.

“Perhaps she cannot provide the explanation.”  
“What?”

“Just because she did not know the reason, doesn’t mean that there isn’t one, Arthur.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, Merlin,” I say, but as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize that it does.

I sit back down in my chair and reach for my goblet, downing the last of last night’s stale wine with a grimace.

“We will find her,” he says, sitting down. I see something like hope in his eyes; hope that I am unable to feel. “We will find her and bring her back to you, where she belongs. And then we will figure out what happened. You will forgive her, Arthur. You will forgive each other.”

“We don’t even know where she is,” I say despondently. “And what if she won’t come back?”

“You’re the king. Order her back,” he says flippantly. I look at him sideways, in no mood for his jests.

“I know you would never do that to Gwen,” Merlin says quietly, daring for the first time to speak her name in my presence since she left.

“I could no more order the sun from the sky.”

“And that is precisely why she will come back, Arthur.”

I sigh heavily, bone-weary though I have just woken. “Thank you, Merlin. I know I do not say it enough.”

He stands. “No, you don’t,” he agrees, standing and grinning that stupid lopsided grin of his at me. I cannot return the smile. I have forgotten how; else she’s taken that as well. “I’ll be back with your breakfast.”

“You are a good friend,” I say quietly. Very quietly. He hears me, though. I see him pause on the way to the doors, pondering a reply.

“You are, too, Arthur.”

“When I remember how to be one,” I answer ruefully. He chuckles and leaves me alone where he found me.

At the table, staring into the empty space that is my room.

Thinking of her.

Missing her.

Wanting her back.

I will get her back.


	6. From wandering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From wandering in the forest,  
> I have come into a clearing  
> Where I trust all men.  
> I am a lion who enters quietly  
> The cage of his own heart.

Arthur is pacing. He is anxious. Restless. Distracted.

Happy.

“Are you all right, Arthur?” Merlin asks. “You’re stalking your room like a caged animal.”

Arthur stops and looks at Merlin. “Am I all right? Of _course_ I’m all right! I’m the happiest man in the world tonight, you know that!”

“Then why are you pacing?”

“I can’t settle down. I’m too excited. Too…”

“Happy?”

He stops and sighs, a ridiculous grin sliding across his face. “I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Too many things spinning through my brain, Merlin. So much to do, so much to plan…” he trails off. _The wedding night,_ he thinks, turning away so Merlin doesn’t see the color rising to his cheeks as his thoughts drift to joining himself with Guinevere physically as well as emotionally and legally. Thoughts that have been drifting into his head with increasing frequency in these past months.

“I’ll turn your bed down anyway, just in case you feel like giving it a go,” Merlin says, brushing past him, pretending not to notice the king’s red ears.

“I’m going out,” Arthur announces.

Merlin turns. _I know where you’re going._ “Arthur, you just proposed to her two hours ago. And you saw her right before she went back home, just an hour ago. Remember?”

“I need to see her or I definitely won’t sleep.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” _You still may not sleep,_ he thinks, a little concerned about where exactly the king’s mind is.

Arthur turns and looks at him, a challenging eyebrow raised.

Merlin holds his hands up. “I know, you’re the king, you can do what you want…”

“Correct. Now hand me that cloak and you can go.”

 

xXx

 

Guinevere stares down at the ring on her finger for the thousandth time that evening. _I still can’t believe it. He actually asked me. He kept his promise._ She takes her shoes off and sits, chiding herself for doubting him. _Of course he kept his promise. I shouldn’t doubt him._

Reaching up to remove the comb from her hair, she sighs. _I wasn’t doubting him. I was doubting the traditions. I may have even consented to being his mistress, if he had asked. Maybe. Maybe not, though._ She goes to her vanity and sets the comb down, running her fingers through her long curls, letting them fall free, cascading around her face, over her shoulders.

_He would never have asked that of me though, I know it. He is too much a knight, too—_

A soft knocking at her door interrupts her thoughts. She wheels around, startled. The knock comes again, still soft but somehow more urgent.

She walks to the door on silent bare feet. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me.”

_Arthur._

She opens the door and he scoots quickly in, throwing the hood of his cloak back as she closes the door behind him.

“I had to see you,” he says immediately, gazing down at her.

“Oh.” She smiles. “I like it when you come to my house,” she says quietly.

“Can I stay a bit?”

“Of course,” she says, reaching up to unclasp his cloak and remove it from his shoulders.

He takes advantage of her proximity and put his arms around her waist, holding her close. She looks up at him, cloak clutched in her hand over his shoulder, a knowing smirk on her face. _I know why you came to see me._

Arthur bends his head to kiss her softly, caressing her lips with his, his hands tangling in the hair falling down her back.

“I love you, Guinevere,” he whispers to her, finally saying the words to her, his forehead against hers, eyes still closed.

Gwen’s heart flips and her stomach flutters hearing the words. _I’m surprised it affects me this much, hearing it. I knew it to be so, but hearing him say it…_ “I love you, Arthur.” She snaps herself out of her thoughts to answer him before he thinks she is hesitating.

He bends his knees, wraps his arms tightly around her waist and squeezes her tightly, lifting her and spinning with her in his arms, hoping that they won’t knock anything over in the small space.

“Arthur!” she exclaims, laughing and dropping the cloak to cling to his neck as he twirls her. He sets her on her feet, only to claim her lips again, this time a little more urgently, a little more aggressively.

Her fingers twine into his hair, and she makes a small squeaking sound in the back of her throat.

He pulls his lips away. “Sorry,” he apologizes hoarsely, thinking he’s pushed her too far.

“For what?” she asks, stroking his cheek.

“Oh. I… I guess I thought…”

“You thought wrong,” she smiles, pulling his head back down to pick up where they left off.

Arthur groans and dives back in, leaning into her. He slides his tongue forward, coaxing her lips apart, wanting more, needing more. She parts her lips for him, meeting his tongue with hers, surprising him with her forwardness as she kisses him back with equal need.

His hands bunch her dress in his fists for a few seconds before opening wide, splaying his fingers against her back, feeling her slender form. Bravely he slides one hand down, fingertips brushing her hip, just at the very top of her rear. She keeps kissing him, either not noticing or not caring, so he slides his hand down a little more, more, until his palm is resting fully on her buttocks.

He peeks one eye open, and she still seems blissfully unaware. He gives a gentle squeeze and she sighs against him, breaking her lips away from his for a moment to whisper his name.

Arthur dips his head to her neck, placing gentle kisses there, the new sensation making her gasp and curl her fingers into his hair.

“Oh…” she sighs, his lips sending delicious shivers down her body. _He’s kissed my lips, my cheeks, my hands, never my neck. Oh, my God, I am melting._ Her head falls back instinctively, giving him more access to the sensitive skin there, and he greedily takes advantage. She can feel his groan against her skin, a gentle vibration, and his hand slides from her rear end reluctantly to hold her waist again.

“Guinevere,” he says into her neck, “you… are… delicious,” he mutters between kisses.

She giggles at the sentiment before she can stop herself, and he looks at her curiously.

“Sorry, I’ve never had anyone say that to me before,” she says, smiling at him, her eyes twinkling.

“Good,” he says decisively, kissing her lips once before taking her hand and pulling her over to the bed.

“Um…” she says, conflicted.

“I’m just tired of standing, I promise,” he says, pulling her down to the bed with him, sitting her close beside him.

He takes a moment to look at her. Her eyes are passion-dark, her lips swollen from his kisses, her hair is a loose tumble of curls, unbound and now slightly disheveled.

“What is it, Arthur?” she asks, noticing his scrutiny.

“You look so beautiful,” he says, raising his hand to touch her hair. “I like your hair like this.”

“It’s a mess,” she says simply, automatically lifting her hands to smooth it. He stops them.

“It looks wonderful,” he says, adding his other hand, delving them both in and running his fingers through her curls.

She smiles at him and leans over to kiss him. _You have no objectivity, but I love you for it,_ she thinks as she lets him push her back on the bed, leaning over her.

He scoots over so he is lying next to her but still leaning over her, nibbling gently at her lips. “Sorry about my boots,” he mumbles.

“What?” she says absently. _Why is he talking about his boots?_

“On your bed,” he says, raising his head. “My boots on your nice clean bed linens.”

“Arthur, I don’t care,” she says, but he is already bending and pulling and flinging.

“Better,” he says, capturing her foot between his, just to prove his point. He grins at her and claims her lips again, resting his hand on her stomach.

His lips go wandering again, nibbling her ear, then back to her neck, kissing the ridge of her collar bone, the hollow of her throat, her cleavage taunting him, so close.

 _Careful, man._ He kisses his way back to her lips, and his hand shifts its position, a little higher, to her ribcage.

 _Just touch them already,_ Gwen thinks, debating if she should just take his hand and move it where she knows he wants to put it.

He leans into her, closer, and she feels the evidence of his desire for her against her thigh. Her eyes open, momentarily surprised, but her surprise quickly shifts to an odd feeling of satisfaction. _I did that. Me._

Arthur moves his hand again, ghosting upward, dragging his hand but just barely touching as he moves it to her face, caressing her cheek with his palm.

 _Damn it._ Gwen places her hand over his, gently closing her fingers around his broad hand, and pulls it downward, hoping he’ll catch on.

He pulls his lips from hers and looks down at her, the question in his eyes. “Guinevere?” he simply says.

“Yes,” she says as his fingers make contact with the softness of her breast where it rises above her bodice. They glide against the soft skin and he closes his eyes, just feeling.

Swallowing hard, fighting with himself, he moves his hand down to close over the soft mound. He squeezes gently, caressing it, sliding his thumb over the exposed top.

Gwen moans quietly and instinctively arches against his hand, and he can feel the stiffness of her nipple beneath the fabric of her dress.

“Oh, God,” Arthur groans, dropping his lips to hers yet again, pressing his hips into her thigh again.

His hand continues to familiarize itself with her breast while he kisses her, sucking her lower lip into his mouth before running his tongue lightly down the tendon at the front of her slender neck, lower, to kiss her breasts. His thumb has now found the hard nub of her nipple and has been tormenting it, drawing soft whimpers from her.

 _How long has her hand been gripping my thigh?_ he wonders, finally noticing her strong small hand there.

“You’re in dangerous territory, Guinevere,” he mutters into her cleavage.

“Oh?” she asks, squeezing his thigh to show she understands what he’s talking about. And to tease him. _Just a little._

He nudges her again. “Can you feel how much I want you?” he asks, low and soft, still peppering her neck and chest with kisses, still holding her breast in his hand.

“Yes,” she whispers boldly, moving her leg back to feel his length with it again. _I want to feel it with my hand._

“I… I _will_ wait until we are wed,” he says, determined. “But it doesn’t mean that it’s going to be easy,” he lifts his head to look at her, “especially when— _Guin_ evere!” he exclaims as her clever hand finds its target.

She kisses him, closing her eyes against her bold move, suddenly shy now that she’s done it. _Can’t back down now,_ she thinks, _the floodgates have been opened._

He kisses her back hungrily, groaning again, feeling her hand’s bashful exploration through the material of his trousers. _Trousers that will stay on. ON._

“You just made this… more difficult, Love,” he says against her lips.

“Sorry,” she says, finally opening her eyes to face him. “I’ll stop if you wish,” she says, starting to lift her hand.

“No!” he exclaims, then, immediately, “Um, no, you don’t have to,” much calmer, trying to regain control. He flicks his thumb across her nipple again, fighting fire with fire.

He kisses her one more time, but they both know they need to stop before they end up losing themselves and making love two days before they are to marry.

_Not that it would really matter at this point… No. I want to do this right._

He removes his hand from her breast; she removes her hand from his groin.

“I love you so much, Guinevere,” he says, pulling her into his arms.

She snuggles into him. “I love you too, Arthur. And,” she pauses, snuggling closer still, “I’m looking forward to being able to spend every night in your arms.”

“Me too,” he says, and she closes her eyes.


	7. Beware

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware of the thought  
> That carries you to jail,  
> Where iron is the captive of the bars,  
> And water complains in its glass,  
> And be careful of the prisoner’s song.  
> It has the singer written in.

I’m trapped. Trapped by my station. Trapped by my poverty. Trapped by my gender. The prince loves me. So what? His father won’t let us be together. I love the prince. So what? I am only a maid, a servant. Nobody.

I should leave. Just leave in the middle of the night, never to be seen again. Being away from here, away from him would be painful, but staying here, staying near him, is more so. I see him and my heart aches. I hear his voice and my soul cries.

_Guinevere._

The way he says my name makes me want to cry. Everyone else calls me Gwen. To Arthur, I am forever Guinevere.

His voice caresses my skin when he speaks my name.

It hurts too much.

Fleeting touches, stolen kisses. They aren’t enough. They’ll never be enough. I tell myself that they are, I assure him that they are, but they aren’t. I tell him that I will wait for him. And I will.

If I stay.

Of course I am staying. I don’t know who I think I am kidding. There is nothing for me out there in the world. There is nothing for me here, either, really. A job. It keeps my hands occupied. My home. I am lucky to have one. Friends. Merlin, Gaius. Morgana, to a certain extent. Arthur.

Arthur.

He makes promises, promises I fear he will be unable to keep.

 

xXx

 

I hate being a prince. Stifling, suffocating. Bound by rules and expectations. Everyone telling me where to go and what to do while somehow looking to me for instruction and guidance.

Slave to my father’s will. Even when I do not agree with him, when I know he is wrong, I am bound to do his bidding, acquiesce to his wishes.

That’s always the worst. When I know he’s wrong. Deep down, in my heart and in my soul, that he’s wrong.

Like about Guinevere. My greatest fear is not death. It is not the supposed evils of magic. It is not enemy attack.

My greatest fear is that my father will force me to marry for the kingdom. I have made a promise that I intend to keep.

My father will have to die before I can keep that promise. And he could yet live a very long time. And that worries me.

Not that I wish my father dead. I don’t. I wish that he would open his eyes. Open his mind, his heart to the possibility that title and station are not as important as he thinks they are. That alliance through marriage isn’t always the best way. That the people would embrace having a queen, or even a princess that was one of them.

There’s always farming. I would take her with me. Take her away from here to a place where we could be a man and a woman, not a prince and a maid.

I dream of her almost every night. I find myself wanting to retire earlier and earlier because my dreams are the only place I can truly, freely, be with her.

Dreams that are becoming increasingly more… intense. Frustrating.

 

xXx

 

A tentative knock comes at Arthur’s door. _Who could that be at this hour?_ Arthur wonders, getting up and opening the door.

“Guinevere,” he says, blinking, his voice rising slightly at this happy surprise.

“Um, I…” she starts, looking furtively to the side and biting her lower lip. He waits; she fidgets with the edges of her wrap.

“I just wanted to say goodnight. I was about to walk home and… I had to come say goodnight before I left.”

“Oh,” he says, his mind blank.

“It’s silly, I know…” she backtracks, feeling foolish now.

“No! No, it’s not silly at all,” he reassures her. “I’m glad you stopped.”

“You are?” she asks shyly.

There is a noise at the end of the corridor, and she looks suddenly to her left. He grabs her arm and pulls her inside his room, quickly but gently.

“Arthur…” she starts, but he puts a single finger to her lips, quieting her. He gazes down at her for a few moments, his finger resting on her lips. Resting gently, now starting to move, slowly, softly stroking the sensitive skin until she can take no more and parts them just slightly, her breathing becoming labored.

He drops his finger, sliding it down her chin to hook underneath it, lifting her face to his. Softly he touches his lips to hers, a sweet, delicate kiss, only touching with his lips and fingertips.

It is a small kiss, but her heart stops beating and she feels as though she is falling.

It is a small kiss, but his mind swims and his heart races.

_I think I’ll stay._


	8. I wouldn't die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wouldn't die without love,  
> But I'd desert my house and land.  
> I would be, for a while,  
> Something simple like grass,  
> And later on be woods.

"Gwen!" an urgent voice whispers in the dark dank of the dungeons. "Gwen, wake up!"

Guinevere turns over and sits up on the filthy straw mat. Her eyes show no signs of sleep, only weeping. They are swollen and rimmed with red. "Merlin?" she blinks. She has spent the evening crying and crying and has run out of tears an hour ago.

Merlin swings the cell door open. "Come on," he holds out his hand to her.

She doesn't move; she stares. "How…?"

"No time to explain. Come _on_ Gwen, he's waiting for us!"

"Arthur?" she stands, a tiny thread of hope daring to lace its way through her broken heart.

"Who else? _Let's go,_ " he urges, grabbing her hand and pulling her from the cell.

She follows him quickly through the dungeons. He moves quickly, but not furtively. He is purposeful. _What is going on? I'm to be executed in the morning, and we're walking out the front door like nothing is happening._ They reach the guard station, and she gasps at the sight of the guards, prone on the ground.

"What happened? Are they…"

"Sleeping comfortably. And very, _very_ deeply," Merlin says, his face set, as he pulls her along up the stairs. They pass more guards and some servants. They are all in the same sort of drugged sleep.

"Have they been drugged?"

"Something like that," Merlin says vaguely. The eerie silence as they walk through the corridors of the castle is unsettling. She continues to follow her friend, the hurried pace set by his much longer legs making her have to almost jog along beside him.

"Merlin—" she starts.

"Sorry, we need to be quick. I'm not sure how long we have," he says, grabbing her hand before pushing the doors to the courtyard open.

They hurry across the stones, passing more sleeping guards. Even the horses are sleeping. Dogs and cats. Mice. Night birds. Every person, every _thing_ that can sleep is doing so.

Gwen is beginning to feel uneasy. _Merlin isn't telling me something._

Near the gates to town, they see the silhouette of a cloaked figure standing with three horses. Merlin sends a low whistle, and the figure lifts his head and runs down to meet them.

Gwen's heart stops beating as she is enfolded in his embrace and lifted off her feet. She throws her arms around his neck, squeezing fiercely, tears once again flowing from her eyes. The tears of sadness have run dry; tears of joy still exist in abundance from lack of use.

"Guinevere," his rough voice rumbles in her ear as he tucks his face into her neck, breathing her in.

He pulls back, sets her on her feet, and bends down, kissing her passionately, a kiss of ultimate relief, a kiss of longing, a kiss with a promise within.

Merlin clears his throat. Arthur turns and glares. "We need to go. _Now,_ " Merlin reminds them.

Arthur strokes Gwen's cheek, noting her swollen eyes, feeling the fresh tears under his palm. "We're leaving Camelot," he tells her softly, taking her hand as they hurry to where he's secured the horses.

"I… I gathered as much. But, Arthur…" she says.

"I know. Camelot needs me. And it will have me. Later. When I am able to govern it by _my_ rules, not the rules made by my father and other narrow-minded classist idiots."

She bites her lip, troubled. "I can't let you leave because of me."

"Do you really think you have a choice?" he turns and asks, his voice coming out harsher than he intended. "Sorry. I'm sorry," he apologizes immediately when he sees her face. He pecks her lips and continues. "It's either leave for a while and return when I can claim the throne as its rightful king with my beautiful queen at my side, or stay here and watch you get executed in the morning. _And I cannot watch that happen._ "

The pain in his eyes breaks her heart, and another tear slips from the corner of her eye.

"Merlin talked me out of my original plan, which was to threaten my own life if my father planned on going through with your execution," Arthur says quietly as he assists Gwen up onto her horse.

"That's a bit extreme," Gwen says, shocked.

"Guinevere. Know this: I do not want to – no, I _know_ that I cannot live, cannot survive in a world without you in it. The king you see in me does not exist without _you._ "

More tears escape from Gwen's eyes as she looks down at her prince, the force of his love for her scaring her a little bit. _But do I feel any less intensely?_ she asks herself, closing her eyes. _No._

He kisses her hand and squeezes it before swinging up onto his own horse and spurring it into motion.

xXx

"Where are we going?" Gwen asks after a time. They have slowed a little now that they are well out of the city, but they are still within the borders of the kingdom.

"South," is all that Arthur will say.

"How far south?" Gwen asks, curious.

"As far south as we can go."

"I've always wanted to see the sea," she says quietly. Arthur hears her and smiles over at her.

"I think you'll get your wish, my love."

She smiles back at him. It is the first smile that has graced her lips since they were discovered at the picnic yesterday, and it is a weak smile, almost as if she has forgotten how.

"We need to reach the borders of the kingdom by daylight, Arthur," Merlin reminds him, impatient with the slow pace.

"Merlin, relax," Arthur says, but knows that Merlin has just as much to fear as he and Gwen do, perhaps more.

_"Arthur, you cannot kill yourself."_

_"Yes, I can, and I will, Merlin."_

_"Arthur, what if I can help Gwen to escape? And you as well?"_

_"Ha," Arthur laughed a humorless laugh. "You? You couldn't escape from a cloth bag; you're going to break Guinevere out of her cell and get me past the six heavily armed and well-trained guards outside my door?"_

_"Yes." Merlin's face was deadly serious._

_"And how, pray tell, are you going to do that?"_

_Merlin snapped his fingers and all the candles in Arthur's room went out at once. He snapped them again and they all re-lit._

_Arthur stared, aghast. "So you're a wizard," he says impotently._ Why am I not furious?

_Merlin nodded, grateful that Arthur was not bothering to waste time yelling at him. "Let me help you, Arthur. The plan you told Morgana: let's do it. We'll leave, and come back when it is your time to be king. I'll have to wipe Morgana's memory of that conversation, of course…"_

_"I don't think that's necessary, Merlin. I trust her," Arthur argued._

_"I don't."_

"Tell Guinevere, Merlin," Arthur quietly recommends. "She needs to know, too. I won't have any secrets. Not anymore."

"Tell me what?"

"You remember everyone sleeping?" Merlin asks Gwen

Gwen nods.

"I did that."

"Sleeping draught?" she asks, knowing that it cannot be, remembering the all-encompassing effects of… whatever it was.

Merlin shakes his head. "You know that's not it, Gwen."

"I know," she admits softly.

"Gwen, please understand why I had to keep it a secret. Even from you. Especially from you."

"I do understand. You would have been endangering my life as well as your own."

Arthur listens to the exchange with interest. _He didn't exactly tell her; yet she knows. Is she smarter than me? Or does she just understand Merlin?_ He sighs. _Probably both._

"I never used it unless I had to. And never for evil purposes. But there is so much more I wish I could have done had I been allowed to use my gifts freely…" he trails off.

"I know," she answers quietly. _He's talking about my father._ She straightens up, and fixes him with a smirk. "So you're not just helping us run, then, are you? You're running as well, now."

He grins. "It appears so."

"Gaius knows?" she asks suddenly.

Merlin nods. Arthur glances over at him, frowning. _Well, nothing for it, now. Of course Gaius would protect him._

xXx

They finally stop at midday, once they are well outside Camelot, in a small village. They are exhausted, sore, and hungry. Gwen notices for the first time that Arthur is dressed simply, bearing no marks identifying him as a Pendragon or tying them to Camelot in any way.

"No one will know me here; we are far enough away," Arthur says, dismounting near an inn. "It's early, but we are all tired. Let's stop and get a room," he glances at Merlin. "Or two."

Merlin hides his smirk.

He acquires two rooms for them easily, and sees that their horses are properly tended. Gwen is impressed at his total lack of imperious attitude, speaking to the innkeeper like he is a man and not just a peasant, even joking lightly with him.

They pause outside the two rooms. Gwen knows what she _wants,_ but she also knows it is highly improper.

Her un-asked question is answered for her when Arthur opens one door, Merlin opens another, and they each go into a room. She bites her lip, takes a deep breath, and follows Arthur into the room.

"Arthur, this isn't proper," she protests weakly.

"It is if you're my wife," he says quietly.

"What?" she asks, though she heard him clear as day.

"Marry me, Guinevere," he says. Asking; sort of.

She gasps.

"Please?" he adds, taking her hands. She looks into his eyes and sees his uncertainty, his anticipation, his fear.

"Yes," she whispers, biting her lip again.

He swoops in and kisses her swiftly, hungrily, gratefully. "Today?" he breaks away, resting his forehead against hers.

"What?" she repeats, and he laughs.

"She said yes, then?" Merlin asks, and they jump, turning to see him leaning casually in the doorway.

"Yes," Arthur says, grinning like a boy. "Merlin, can you…?"

"On my way," he turns to leave, knowing what Arthur is asking.

xXx

The wedding is simple; a Druid priest performs the ceremony.

 _"We can trust him, Arthur," Merlin reassured him when the former prince balked at the concept. "Arthur, the Druids know me. The_ real _me. And they've kept my secret. They'll keep yours. If your father sends a search party, they won't even be found. And your marriage will still be completely binding," he added, answering Arthur's other concern._

They are deep within a forest, led to a clearing by Merlin. The ceremony is simple, Merlin the only witness.

Arthur came prepared with a ring. The priest, Odras, blessed the ring, blessed them both, and blessed their union. Then he blessed Merlin, charging him with the protection of the couple.

"Now, as a symbol of sealing your union as man and wife, you must seal this ceremony with a kiss affirming your love for each other," Odras completes the ceremony.

Arthur pulls Guinevere close. She looks radiant in a simple gown borrowed from the innkeeper's wife and flowers in her hair, standing in the soft afternoon sunlight. "I love you," he whispers just before his lips touch hers, softly at first, gradually increasing in intensity as Gwen leans up into him, her hand forgetting its manners and straying into his hair.

They part and gaze into each other's eyes. They remember to breathe again. They remember where they are again. "I love you, Arthur," Gwen whispers back to him, stroking his cheek with her fingertips. Merlin and Odras smile over the couple.

"Their love will bring great things on this land, Emrys," Odras says simply. Merlin nods in agreement.

"Emrys?" Arthur turns and asks.

"My Druid name. It's what they call me," he answers simply.

"Arthur, Guinevere," Odras addresses them. "The Druid people will watch over you. We always have our eyes on Camelot as well. We will alert Emrys when the time is right for you to return."

"Thank you, Odras," Gwen says, twining her fingers with Arthur's.

"Continue on your journey south. You will be safe. Arthur, introduce yourself as Aldwin to all whom you meet. Guinevere, you shall be called Goldevia. Merlin, your name is now Marden."

Arthur's brow furrows. "Surely that won't be necessary."

"Do not underestimate the length of the arms of gossip, my lord. Your name is already known far and wide, and news of your flight will not take long to spread."

"Thank you again, Odras," Guinevere says, touching his arm lightly.

"Yes, thank you. And please know that under my rule, the Druid people will be free to live as they please, treated with respect and no longer persecuted. I promise you this," Arthur says.

"I know what you say is true, Aldwin," Odras says, addressing Arthur by his new name. Arthur smiles weakly. _He doesn't like the name,_ Gwen and Merlin both think, sharing a secret smile between them.

They turn to leave, and Odras' voice halts them.

"Beware of the Lady Morgana, however. She is not what she seems and she may not be willing to give up the throne to you upon your return."

Merlin looks back and nods, quickly ushering his friends back towards the inn.

xXx

They dine alone, in a small room shown to them by the innkeeper's wife, overcome by the romance of their seemingly sudden marriage. The innkeeper indulges his wife, but cannot help wondering what they are running from or if the blonde stranger has gotten the tiny brown beauty in a family way. His wife shushes him, dismissing his concerns, calling them "poppycock" just before she heads in to check on the trio.

"Can I get you anything else, dears?" she asks, after knocking softly.

"Perhaps a top-up of my ale, if you please," Arthur asks, holding his mug aloft. "G- Goldevia, do you need anything, Love?" he asks, smirking at her, using her new pseudonym for the first time.

"No thank you, ma'am, I'm simply stuffed," she says, smiling at the older woman. She notices that the girl's plate is only half-eaten.

"Are you sure, Lamb? You've got a lot left there," the innkeeper's wife asks, a mother's concern showing in her voice. She studies Guinevere, cursing her husband and his ridiculous ideas. _She looks healthy, but not glowing. Neither ill nor ravenous. Full breasts, but not too much so. This girl is not with child,_ she thinks, but she knows she'll be keeping a keen ear out in the morning for anything sounding remotely like someone being sick. She curses her husband again.

Gwen smiles kindly at her. "I've always been a light eater, sorry. It was excellent, thank you."

"I'll finish it," Merlin says, reaching for her plate. Arthur rolls his eyes at him, but the innkeeper's wife only smiles.

"I'd say you could do with a second or even a third helping, my dear," she smiles at Merlin, who holds his mug aloft to her in a silent toast, his mouth full. He takes a drink, and she rushes to refill him.

"Um, I do have some honey cakes, made fresh this afternoon…" she offers. "It is traditional to have a bite of cake after a wedding, you know."

"Thank you, that would be lovely," Arthur says, smiling at Gwen.

The older woman scurries out, bustling back to get the cakes for them. Cakes she made especially for them, actually.

The innkeeper frowns over at his wife as she speeds through with the cakes. She sticks her tongue out at him and delivers the cakes to the young couple and their friend.

xXx

"Beginning to feel like an intruder here," Merlin mutters, standing. The conversation has been dwindling steadily over the last hour due to Gwen and Arthur becoming more and more absorbed in one another.

"Sorry, Merlin," Gwen blushes, standing also. "It… it has been a long day, hasn't it?"

Arthur stands, knocking his stool over in his haste. Gwen hides her giggle behind her hand while Merlin laughs openly. Arthur swings his arm around Merlin's shoulders, squeezing him into a headlock and half dragging him from the room. Merlin just laughs and quickly worms himself free, giving Arthur a friendly shove on the shoulder.

Arthur turns suddenly out of habit, ready to dispense punishment, but Gwen's hand on his arm reminds him that he isn't the prince any more. He is Aldwin the potential farmer. Merlin – Marden – is his equal now.

And besides, if Merlin wanted to, he could blast Arthur through the wall into the next room.

They reach their rooms and suddenly awkwardness takes over.

"Goodnight… you two," Merlin says, trying to keep the innuendo out of his voice and not quite achieving that goal.

Gwen blushes, but steps over to him and hugs him tightly. "Thank you, Merlin. I'd be dead by now were it not for you," she says, leaning up to kiss his cheek.

"Merlin," Arthur says, regarding his best friend ( _May as well admit it, man._ ) and former servant.

"Arthur."

"Thanks," he says, slapping him companionably on the shoulder. Then, surprising them both, he grabs him and hugs him. "You are a true friend," he says, then releases him. "Even if you are a wizard."

Merlin turns and heads to his room. Arthur bends and lifts his bride into his arms. Gwen laughs, turns the knob to the door, and Arthur kicks it open.

"Mind her head in the doorway," Merlin calls, before shutting his door.

Gwen laughs again, resting her head on Arthur's shoulder as he goes through the narrow doorway, turning sideway slightly to avoid bumping any part of her.

He kicks the door closed behind them.

xXx

"Dinner!" Guinevere calls from the doorway of the modest house the three of them share.

Arthur and Merlin lift their heads, grateful to be able to come in out of the sun. The cool breeze drifting from the sea helps cool their skin, but the sun is relentless. Arthur's skin has turned golden from the exposure and his hair is a shade lighter. Merlin has put on a few pounds of muscle and has a perpetual sunburn.

They've passed themselves off as a young married couple, which is true, and Merlin is introduced as Goldevia's cousin Marden, to avoid scandalous gossip about a woman living with two men.

Arthur splashes in the water barrel, cooling himself and removing the outermost layer of sweat and grime from his chest and face before grabbing his shirt from where it is carelessly hanging on a fence post.

Merlin follows suit, cleaning only his face and neck. He learned the hard way that he needs to leave his shirt on when working outside.

"Honestly Mer- Marden, you'd think you'd be able to magic yourself some sort of way to not get burned every day," Arthur says, flicking his shirt at him.

"We've managed to stay inconspicuous for nearly two moons now, _Aldwin,_ and I'm not going to risk our solitude and peace by poking skunks."

"Poking skunks?" Arthur looks sideways at him. "Just when I think you've said your last weird thing…"

He enters the house and immediately crosses to Gwen, dishing up food from the stove, and kisses her cheek, his arm wrapping around her waist for a squeeze.

"You stink," she says.

"And I love you, too," he chuckles, kissing her neck before going to sit at the table.

"Mmm, who was the unlucky victim tonight?" Merlin asks, leaning forward to smell the delicious chicken placed in front of him.

Gwen turns around and sighs. "I do wish you hadn't _named_ the chickens, Merlin. It makes it just that much more gruesome when I have to butcher one."

Arthur and Merlin laugh. "We didn't give them _nice_ names," he protests.

"I know. This one was Cenred, I think," she sighs, sitting.

"Excellent," Arthur says, rubbing his hands together.

 _Once a warrior, always a warrior,_ Gwen thinks, chuckling a bit now herself.

After dinner Arthur and Gwen walk to the nearby cliffs overlooking the sea while Merlin cleans up. He always offers, shooing them out the door, giving them time together and giving him time alone, which they all need. He sits and relaxes while the dishes clean themselves and put themselves away.

"Do you regret leaving?" Gwen asks, her arms wrapped around her husband's waist as they stand, watching the waves crash on the rocks, the ocean air blowing her curls from her shoulders.

"No. Sometimes. Maybe. I don't know if 'regret' is exactly the word for it," he answers, his hand stroking small circles on her back. "My only regret is that my father couldn't allow us to be together like this in Camelot."

"Couldn't or wouldn't?" she asks. "There is a big difference."

Arthur ponders this. "Wouldn't," he allows with a sigh. "He's the king. He could have changed the rules. But he wouldn't. So I will."

Gwen nods, resting her head on his chest. They listen to the roar of the sea, the cries of sea-birds as they dive and swoop.

Arthur winds a lock of her hair around his hand, feeling the strands in his fingers. He dips his head and smells her hair.

Gwen smiles, remembering the first time he did that. _Our wedding night. In that inn._

She giggles a little, and he looks at her.

"Something funny?"

"I was just thinking about the first time I caught you smelling my hair like that."

"Ah. The inn."

"You were so sweet. I hadn't realized that you were…"

"Nervous?" he supplies.

"Inexperienced," she grins at him, and he blushes. "Not that it mattered, of course. I was merely surprised."

He shrugs. "I only ever wanted you. And before that, I honestly never had any time for… dalliances."

"We seemed to do pretty well for a couple of first-timers," she jokes as he turns her, pulling her into both his arms so she is facing him, pressing her small body against his.

"Yes, indeed," he bends his head and kisses her. "And we keep getting better at it, too," he says, grinning against her lips, nibbling, remembering his eager hands and hips, her conflict over wanting him but not wanting to appear improper, him coaxing the impropriety out of her, wanting her to enjoy herself as much as he was.

The thoughts and memories spin inside his head as he slips his tongue in between Gwen's lips, bringing forth a faint whimper from the back of her throat that Arthur has learned to love hearing and, in fact, strives to bring forth as much as possible.

A twig snaps behind them, and they are snapped out of their world, pulling apart, grinning and looking sheepish.

"Evening, Aldwen, Goldie," the local butcher, out for his evening walk, nods at them as he passes, a knowing smile crossing his weathered face.

"Evening, Bartley," Arthur says as Gwen returns to his side. She smiles at the man as he passes them to continue along the path that follows the cliff.

"There's going to be gossip tomorrow," Gwen giggles as they walk back to the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been expanded into the multi-chapter fic "Flight"


	9. I remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember being in your arms,  
> But it is not you or me I remember.  
> It is my arms,  
> Remembering your arms.

His hands, his eyes.

Her skin, her lips.

The single candle illuminating the house.

The cozy warmth of the room.

The texture of his shirt under my hands.

The feel of her curls between my fingers.

His lips brush mine.

Her eyes flutter closed.

I melt into his embrace.

My hands clutch at her dress.

He holds me as I fall.

The creak of her narrow bed, unaccustomed to my weight.

His lips at my neck.

Her hands on my chest.

My bodice flung carelessly aside.

My shirt tossed to the floor.

His hands at my breasts.

Her lips on my chest.

His lips at my breasts.

Her hands clutching my hair.

Too many clothes.

Not enough room.

The cool night air against my skin.

Her skillful fingers at my trousers.

His tongue against mine.

She tastes like honey.

He is man.

She is beauty.

My body is his.

I need to make her my own.

So warm, so hard.

So warm, so soft.

He is luxury.

She is decadence.

His hands on my body.

Her lips on my skin.

He touches me where no man has ever touched.

Her slender fingers are soft and strong.

I want you.

I need you.

His hips, narrow and firm.

Her thighs, strong and smooth.

Firm and velvety.

Warm and moist.

The pleasure, the pain, the pleaure.

Tears kissed away.

Exploring hands, curious lips.

We are one.

Pleasure.

The room is spinning.

Our hearts are full.

Our hearts beat in time.

Fingers clutch, lips caress, teeth gently bite.

Soft moans, plaintive cries.

Pleasure.

Love.

Abandon.

Joy.

Quivering bodies.

Sweaty, salty skin.

Eyes closed, eyes opened.

We are flying.

We are soaring.

Sunshine after the rain.

A blossoming flower bud.

A bright spark in the cold of winter.

Water burst forth from a well.

Release.

Pleasure.

Breathing.

Soft kisses.

Breathing.

Brave promises whispered in my ear.

Soft sighs against my skin.

His arms around my body.

Her arms around my neck.

He is a tattoo on my heart.

She is burned into my very soul.


	10. For everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For everything turned false,  
> A little more turns true.  
> The daily birds in the trees  
> Sing forever.

_Why does my head feel like a horse has trodden on it?_ Arthur groans and turns, feeling the soft fallen leaves of the forest floor under his hands. He tries to open his eyes, but the brightness of the sun pierces his head like a blade, and he slams them shut once again with a groan.

_What happened? Where is my horse? Merlin? Sir Leon, the knights? The princess?_

He tries to sit up, but again the pain in his head prevents him, and he slumps back down, trying to think.

 _Something spooked the horses. The party was scattered; I was thrown._ He rolls onto his side, curling his body up. _I haven’t been thrown from a horse since I was nine._

_Open your damn eyes and try to see where you are._

Gingerly, he pries his eyes open, raising his hand to shield them from the sunshine. _A small clearing. Get into the shade._

Grunting with the effort and the pain in his head, he crawls on his belly about two meters to the base of a tree, where he slumps down again, panting.

He raises his hand to his head, feeling carefully. When he withdraws his hand, there is blood on it.

 _Fantastic. Why isn’t anyone looking for me?_ His last thought before he loses consciousness again.

 

xXx

 

Arthur feels something cool on his forehead, something soft pillowing his head. _They found me; I’m in my bed,_ he thinks, grasping with his hands for the soft blankets of his bed. His fingers grasp the material and he pulls it, trying to cover himself, to snuggle in, but the sheet will not come.

He gropes with his other hand, finding only leaves, twigs, and dirt. _I’m still in the forest,_ he realizes. _But what fabric is this?_

He opens his eyes as much as he can, but all he can see is a blur of yellows and browns.

“Shh, Arthur, just rest.”

_I must be delirious. That is Guinevere’s voice._

He moans and shifts his position slightly, and his arm bumps something hard. _That felt suspiciously like a knee._

The cool something on his forehead moves, stroking it, brushing the sweaty hair aside before moving around to the wound on the side, where he can feel nimble fingers lift something pressed against the side of his head before replacing it, pressing gently but firmly.

“The bleeding has slowed,” he hears her voice whisper, but it is not speaking to him.

He turns his head, feeling the material he had clutched at earlier beneath his cheek, something warm and soft beneath that.

_I really did hit my head good. This feels like a lap. It feels like my head is in Guinevere’s lap._

_If this is what being unconscious is like, I’ll take it._

Her cool hand returns to his forehead, soothing. He hears gentle humming and drifts away again.

 

xXx

 

“Arthur!”

“Sire!”

Voices in the distance, coming closer, stir him once again. He opens his mouth to answer, but no sound comes.

He feels his head lifted, gently, with supreme care, and set down on what must be his cape folded into a makeshift pillow.

A pair of soft lips, warm and familiar, press his forehead, his cheek, his lips.

“I love you, Arthur, always. Always.” Guinevere’s soft whisper torments him in this dream once again.

 _If she was ever here, she is gone now._ He imagines he hears the gentle whisper of her skirts against the leaf litter, her soft footfall as she steals away.

“Here! I found him!” Merlin cries, crashing through the underbrush towards him.

“Arthur?” He crouches next to the king, turning his head to inspect the damage.

 _Someone has tended this wound,_ Merlin notes, furrowing his brows at the strange pink dressing wrapped around his head.

His eyes drift to the pillow under Arthur’s head. It’s the same color. _Strangely familiar…_

“Guinevere,” Arthur moans quietly.

 _He’s lost it._ “No, it’s Merlin, Sire. Come on, we need to get you back to Camelot.”

“She was here,” he gasps. “Guinevere was here.”

“As you say,” Merlin humors him as Leon and Percival lift him and Percival slings him over his shoulder.

Merlin crouches down to retrieve Arthur’s crossbow and picks up the bundle of material that was under Arthur’s head and lifts it.

It is one of Guinevere’s dresses.


	11. I have climbed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have climbed  
> Out the window of my eye,  
> Through the door of my mouth,  
> Into the garden of my senses.

Arthur presses his forehead against the door, willing his body through the wood. The wood doesn’t budge. He hears another scream from the other side, and he presses his palm against the door.

“Guinevere,” he whispers, worried out of his skull.

“Arthur, she will be fine,” Gaius reassures him, his hand on the king’s shoulder.

Another anguished cry from the other side of the door.

“Does that sound like she’s fine? It sounds like she’s _dying,_ Gaius!”

“It’s all a part of the process, my lord,” the physician reassures him.

“Process,” he mutters the word like a curse. “Why can’t you be in there with her? Sod that, why can’t _I_ be in there with her?”

“Those are the rules, Arthur,” Merlin chimes in, but he is as worried as Arthur.

“Rules? I’m the king! And I’ve been changing all the rules anyway, remember?”

“ _You_ try arguing with them about it,” Gaius says, nodding towards the door. There’s another scream and Arthur turns back to the door, leaning his head against it again.

Gaius looks at them. “The two of you are a sight. Merlin, you are positively green, and Arthur, if you were standing any closer to that door, you’d be on the other side.”

“That’s the intention,” he croaks as another scream reaches their ears. His hand strokes the door absently, caressing the wood as if it were his beloved wife’s cheek.

“They’re coming closer together now, that’s good,” Gaius remarks.

“Good? The screams are more frequent and that’s _good?_ ” Arthur rails. He slides down and sits on the floor, huddled against the door.

“Arthur, listen,” Gaius tells him. “Really listen to Guinevere’s cries.”

As if on cue, her voice comes floating through the door.

“I can’t,” Arthur says, dropping his head onto his knees.

“Merlin, do you hear it?” Gaius asks.

“Those are shouts of determination, not pain,” Merlin says, blinking with the realization. “Arthur, she’s fine,” he adds, believing it for the first time.

Another scream. Arthur hears it this time. He hears the determination, the drive, the effort being put forth by his petite queen. He smiles weakly.

“She is a strong girl, Arthur,” Gaius reminds him.

There is another, on the tail of the last, and then silence. Seconds later, there is another cry. An unfamiliar cry. The cry of a new life that has just been brought into the world.

Three sets of eyes lock onto the doors in front of them.

Then Arthur passes out.

Merlin laughs, turning his eyes to Gaius, watching him kneel down beside the king, drawing a vial of smelling salts from his robe, and holding it beneath Arthur’s nose.

“You expected this?” Merlin asks.

“I always come prepared at these events,” he says as Arthur jerks awake. He sits up and looks around, puzzled and blinking.

“What happened?” he says.

“Your wife had a baby. And you fainted,” Merlin says simply, biting back his smirk.

“I did _not_ faint—whoa!” Arthur protests as his head spins when he tries to stand. Merlin and Gaius steady him, pulling him to his feet by his elbows.

He looks at them desperately. “Don’t tell Guinevere,” he says.

“Not a word,” Merlin answers, and Gaius inclines his head in agreement just as the doors open and the midwife steps out.

Merlin and Gaius drop their supportive hands.

“Sire, Queen Guinevere has someone she would like you to meet,” she says, motioning that he can enter the room.

He walks forward, and Merlin goes to follow. Gaius stays him with a hand on his arm. “Let him go alone,” he whispers.

“Of course,” Merlin stops immediately. _Idiot. This is his moment._

“Arthur, come meet your son,” Guinevere says from the bed, a small bundle of blankets in her arms. Her voice is hoarse, strained from overuse. She looks tired, sweaty, a bit disarrayed, with locks of hair coming loose from her braid. _She is beauty personified._

“Son?” he says quietly, stopping mid-stride. _Don’t pass out again, man, you will never live it down._

She nods, smiling, and the bundle of blankets squirms and squeaks. She looks down at it – him – shushing and cooing.

He reaches the bed and looks down at them, just watching them. _This is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my entire life._ He sinks down onto the bed next to them.

“He’s amazing,” Arthur whispers, reaching a tentative hand forward then withdrawing it, afraid.

“You won’t break him, I promise,” Gwen says, chuckling at him. He reaches out again and strokes the tiny cheek with his finger.

 _His skin is softer even than Guinevere’s. I’ve never felt anything like it._ Arthur smiles and he feels happy tears pricking at his eyes, but he doesn’t care. _Let them fall if they must._

“You can hold him,” Gwen offers, lifting the bundle and holding it towards him.

“Oh, I don’t… wait—” Arthur protests, but she is already handing his son to him. He takes the baby, who wiggles and squirms, trying to settle, instinctively knowing that these new arms don’t quite know what to do yet.

“Relax, Love,” Gwen tells him softly. Arthur does, and his son settles in. He studies the tiny man. Dark wispy hair, pouty little lips, skin just a shade darker than Arthur’s and just a shade lighter than Guinevere’s. Little upturned nose. A wee hand escapes from the blankets and Arthur places his thumb in the boy’s palm, feeling the hand with his fingers. The baby grasps his father’s thumb, curling his fingers around.

He opens his eyes for a moment, staring up at the blur that will eventually form the face of his father. Arthur smiles. “He has your eyes,” he says, noting that the boy has the unique almond-shaped eyes that Gwen and her brother both have. “But they’re blue, like mine,” he says.

“Almost all babies are born with blue eyes,” Gwen says, “they may yet change.”

He gazes down at the miracle in his arms and scoots closer to Gwen. She rests her head on his shoulder.

“Why is his head, um, pointy?” Arthur asks suddenly, stroking the still-drying fuzz on the top of his head.

Gwen laughs. “Arthur, think a moment,” is all she’ll say.

He looks at the baby, then at her. “Oh. _Oh._ ”

She laughs again. “The midwife promises that it will sort itself out in a few days,” she says.

“My lady?” the midwife calls from the doorway.

“Yes, Merlin and Gaius can come in now,” Gwen answers, knowing what the question was going to be.

Merlin rushes in like an excited puppy, dying to see the new heir. Gaius follows, slower, but still purposeful, wishing to examine both the mother and child.

“It’s a boy,” Arthur says, feeling giddy again. “Llacheu,” he declares, looking down at him, then Gwen, eyes questioning.

“I love it,” she says, squeezing his arm.

Merlin leans over and looks at the little prince. “He’s beautiful.”

“Merlin, are you crying?” Arthur asks, smirking.

“Yes. And you’ll shut up about it if you know what’s good for you,” he threatens, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

 _Ah, yes. Message received._ Arthur says nothing. Llacheu starts to fuss, and Gwen reaches for him.

“He’s hungry,” she says, and Merlin and Gaius step away, over to the adjoining room.

“My lady, allow me to call the wet nurse,” the midwife says, but Gwen is already loosening the ties on the linen nightdress she is wearing.

“That won’t be necessary,” she says.

“But—”

Gwen looks up and fixes the midwife in her stare. “ _My_ baby; _I_ will nurse him.”

The midwife frets and wrings her hands, watching helplessly as the prince latches on to his mother, and Arthur simply says, “If the queen wishes to nurse her own child, then that is what she shall do.”

“My lord, you should not be here while she feeds him.”

“And why not?”

“It’s… it’s not proper.”

Arthur sighs. “There is nothing improper about it. It’s just unconventional.” He settles in, making himself comfortable, just to drive the point home further. “If it was improper for me to see my wife’s breast, this child wouldn’t be here,” he mutters under his breath, drawing a giggle from Gwen.

“I give up,” the midwife says, throwing her hands up.

“Welcome to my world,” Merlin mutters to her as she passes him, and he hears her stifle a laugh.

Llacheu nurses, content now that he’s getting his belly filled.

“You are beautiful. Wonderful,” Arthur says, leaning over to kiss Gwen’s cheek. “I didn’t think there was room yet in my heart to love you more, but I do, and still there’s room for him as well,” he whispers, reaching over to stroke his son’s tiny warm head.

Gwen hums quietly to Llacheu as he feeds, watching his mouth move, his little fist resting on her breast. “He is amazing, you’re right.”

“So are you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I came across this set of eleven songs based on some short poems. The poems are by George Montgomery, but I don’t know what their actual names are, if they even have names. I found some of them beautiful and all of them interesting, so I decided to use them as bases for some mini-fics. The poems were set to music by William Bolcom, intended for performance by voice, piano, and a solo dancer. Hence the title Songs to Dance. It was only performed this way once, in New York in 1991. The pianist was William Bolcom, the soloist Joan Morris (Bolcom’s wife), and the dancer was Dan Wagoner (George Montgomery’s partner).


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